


It Happened on a Tuesday

by miashay



Category: CW Network RPF, Supernatural RPF
Genre: Hostage Situation, M/M, Non-Explicit Sex, POV Outsider, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-19
Updated: 2012-08-19
Packaged: 2017-11-12 11:47:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,447
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/490558
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miashay/pseuds/miashay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>  AU Jensen’s a bank teller and Jared’s a bank robber.  Outside POV.  </p>
            </blockquote>





	It Happened on a Tuesday

**Author's Note:**

> Another Blindfold fill. The link to the original prompt is [here](http://blindfold-spn.livejournal.com/7359.html?thread=7726783#t7726783).

It happened on a Tuesday.  I remember because Peter had called me early that morning before he left for work, like he does every Tuesday, to fill me in on the girls and that wife of his, Angela, sweet as can be, but can’t so much as boil water, that woman.  Peter was the one who reminded me to go to the bank.

The check from Roger’s life insurance had finally come through, not that I needed it.  I’ve always had a head for investing, even when Roger, the stubborn mule (God rest his soul) was dead set on stuffing all our money in mattresses and old cigar boxes, and hiding them around the house.  Still, there’s no sense in sitting on a check of that size, and the sooner I got it deposited, the sooner Peter would stop hassling me about it.  He’s a good boy, a bit of a soft touch, but loyal to the bone.  There are times, though, when I think he forgets just who the mother is between us.

I pulled up to the bank around eight o’clock in the morning.  I came straight from the six thirty service at St Matthews, and I was due to meet Elba for brunch at nine.  For some reason or another, this branch always opened later than the rest, and someone was just unlocking the doors as I got out of my car. 

It was one of the new tellers, Jensen, a tall, handsome man, with classic features and just a hint of mischief about him, like a young, green-eyed Paul Newman.  He held the door open, asked about my morning so far- so polite, that boy- and called over the bank manager for me, Eddie Middleton.  His mother, of course, is Nora Middleton.  She comes to the Monday and Thursday services at St Matthews, and helps organize the monthly potluck.

Eddie and I talked for a while, about his new twin boys and my most recent bout of non-allergic rhinitis, while more customers filed in.  By the time I got around to handing the check over, there were three people waiting in line behind us.

I was standing to leave when it happened.  Four people, men, you could tell by the size and build of them, came rushing through the doors.  They were dressed in dark clothing, with gloves and black masks on, like the kind you buy to wear when you’re out shoveling snow, since they cover your whole face, save your eyes and mouth.  They had guns, big ones, probably bigger than they needed to be, and they were pointing them at the rest of the customers and the tellers, including poor Jensen, who looked more angry than scared, really. 

To the right of me, Eddie was hunkered down on his hands and knees, gesturing for me to move.  He reminded me so much of Peter when he was a boy, crawling around under our dining room table in his Easter suit, wearing holes in the knees and scuffing up his dress shoes, I had half a mind to pull him up by his ear.  I didn’t, of course I didn’t.  I could see he was frightened, so I tried to soften my face up a little, as I shook my head no.

Thirty-five years on my feet as a nurse, and I’m lucky I have any knees left.  If the new kneelers at St Matthews aren’t soft enough to get me to so much as genuflect after confession, four robbers with big guns and black masks weren’t getting me on that bank’s hard floor.  That carpet is thin as tissue paper, with not an inch of padding beneath it.    

It took the robbers a few minutes to notice me, busy as they were, waving their big guns around and terrorizing people.  One of them, the tallest one, at least five inches clear over six feet, had taken an interest in Jensen.  At the time, I’d thought that maybe he’d seen the same look on his face that I had.  He walked straight up to him, as close as he could get with the counter between them.

“Put your hands where I can see them”, he said, like he was a police officer, approaching a dangerous criminal.

Jensen just stood there, still as stone, and stared that robber down like he’d turn to salt if he looked away.  The robber stared right back. 

Of course, it was then that one of the other robbers, this one short and stocky, noticed me standing in front of Eddie’s desk.  He didn’t take too well to that.  He yelled at me to get down, pointing the barrel of his gun from me to the floor, like I was a toddler who needed instructions mimed out for me.

I’ve done a lot of foolish things in my life.  You get to be my age and, more likely than not, the foolish starts to outweigh the wise.  There were seven other people in that bank with me, and most of them were scared to death.  The only one left standing was Jensen, who still looked furious beyond reason and hadn’t moved an inch, even with that giant of a robber less than a foot away from him.  Maybe I should have just gotten to my knees, not made any more trouble.  But I didn’t, of course I didn’t. 

I said to him, “I’m an old woman with bad knees.  I’m not getting in the way of your robbery by standing here.”

Needless to say, short and stocky didn’t like that reply, at all.  For a moment or two, I was certain he would shoot me, but then the tall one broke up his little staring contest and noticed the two of us. 

“Get out from behind the counter,” he said in Jensen’s direction, not even looking back to make sure he complied. 

He did, though he kept his hands at his sides and out of sight for as long as he could.  Once he was in full view, the robber motioned for him to stop, then waved a hand behind him in the direction of the other two robbers, who I’d somehow managed to put out of my mind completely until then.  Out of the corner of my eye, I watched them shuffle the three customers and two tellers who weren’t Jensen and I to the far corner of the room. 

Once they were settled, the tall robber gave a nod, and short and stocky walked away from me to over where Jensen now stood, and took the butt of his gun to his temple.

Jensen stayed on his feet.  He was blinking a little, and had a trail of blood running down the side of his face, but he wasn’t swaying or swooning, or whatever it is a person does when they’re about to pass out.  If anything, I’d say he just looked angrier.

Meanwhile, the tall one had walked over to stand beside me.  He locked eyes with Jensen for a second or two- even clear across the room, those boys wouldn’t quit- then reached for the chair I’d been sitting on before all this nonsense started and turned it away from Eddie’s desk, and towards the bank’s main floor.  He gestured for me to sit, like he was a gentleman, pulling the seat out for his sweetheart.

I’ve never had a lot of patience for patronizing gestures; goodness knows I get enough of them from Peter on his bad days.  I had half a mind to slap that robber’s hand away, and if Jensen hadn’t been bleeding, I would have.  But he was bleeding, and I’d already done enough damage, so I sat down without another word.  Once I was seated, the tall robber actually smiled in my direction, like he was pleased with my compliance.

Then he asked, “Where’s the bank manager?”

By this point, Eddie had crawled completely under his desk, not so much as a tuft of hair visible from where the robber stood.  He asked another time and, when no one replied, he nodded to short and stocky again.  This time, the blow came across Jensen’s face, leaving his cheekbone red and undoubtedly sore.  Again, no one spoke.

By the fourth blow, short and stocky had switched to his fist and one of the other customers, hostages, I suppose we were, started to cry.  Not quiet, muffled sobs, but the loud and messy kind, the ones that make you hiccup between each breath.  Jensen, for all his efforts to stay upright and angry, was tottering a bit, and even the robbers were starting to look sick now, but I knew they wouldn’t stop until they got what they wanted.  

“Get out from your desk, Eddie, before he beats the man to death,” I said.

Eddie gasped, crawled out far enough to tilt his head up at me.  He looked surprised and betrayed, like hiding under his desk while one of his employees got knocked bloody was such an honorable thing to do.  He came out slowly, with his hands up.  The tall robber let out an audible sigh of relief at the sight of him. 

Once Eddie was completely out from under his desk and on his feet, the two robbers who’d been watching the hostages came over and led him back in the direction of the vault.  Short and stocky crossed the room and took their place, cracking his knuckles and shaking out his hand as he went.  The tall robber stayed next to me, but kept his eyes glued on Jensen.  

After that, the silence stretched out for ten minutes, at least.  I wondered if Elba was having brunch without me, if she was worried or just testy.  A year ago, I’d have said testy for certain, but last February, Mary Walters didn’t show up to brunch and we spent half the morning complaining about her bad manners.  Come to find out she’d slipped in her driveway on the way to her car and broken her hip.  I wondered if Elba had called Peter to come check on me, to see if I had a broken hip, if she’d found out that I’d been headed to the bank, if she’d called the police.

That last thought made me shudder.  I’d seen enough bank robberies in movies and on the television to know that police only made these situations worse. 

That shudder, small as it was, seemed to have startled the tall robber out of his thoughts, whatever it is that robbers think about when they’re not robbing people or knocking them around.  He took a quick glance around the room, from Jensen, to short and stocky with the other hostages, to me, to the doors, and back to Jensen. 

His eyes changed up when he looked at him, lost the cold calculation they held when he was surveying the rest of the bank.  They were warm and a bit sad, much like his voice when he next spoke.

“How’s your head?” he asked. 

Jensen didn’t reply, though he did send the robber a glare. 

“No one else needs to get hurt,” the robber said, voice clear and calm, “we’ll get what we came for and be on our way.”

No one had any response to that, and I doubt he was expecting one.  The only person he was interested in was Jensen, who had looked away again and was back to doing his best impersonation of a human statue. 

A few more minutes passed, and the robber started to fidget.  Not a lot, mind you, just a twitch of his hand or a bite to his lip.  While I couldn’t see them, I’m sure he was also furrowing his eyebrows under his mask, maybe crinkling up his forehead.  This growing anxiety must have gotten to him- and who knew robbers had such delicate sensibilities?- cause when he finally spoke again, he sounded dangerous for the first time.     

“Come here,” he said. 

Jensen didn’t bother pretending to misunderstand him, just took five steps in our direction and stopped.  The tall robber crooked a finger and motioned him closer, calmer now, but insistent.  Jensen kept moving until he was right in front of us.  He turned to face the tall robber head on, which put his back completely to the other hostages.  The robber spared me a quick, guilty glance, as if that wasn’t a sign of things to come, then turned his attention back to Jensen.     

“Unbutton your shirt,” he said.

His voice was quiet, almost a whisper.  Jensen and I were probably the only ones to hear it.  I wondered if this was why he’d moved the other hostages to the corner of the room, in the first place.  This way, he could have Jensen mostly to himself, not like some old woman would be getting in his way, and both of them would be free to say whatever they wanted as long as they said it quietly enough.  It was something Jensen took advantage of not a moment later, as he reached for the first button. 

“Damn it, Jared” he said. 

It was like the last tumbler of a lock falling into place.

Jensen had to loosen his tie to get to the other buttons.  He kept it knotted and dangling around his neck, though I couldn’t say why.  The poor boy was undressing in public, a few feet from an old woman and a robber, who was apparently not only a robber, but also a robber Jensen knew by name.  If a tie could make him feel more in control of the situation, who was I to question it?  

Three buttons down, and I could see his undershirt.  It wasn’t like the kind of undershirt I used to buy for Roger, loose and with a deep v-neck, but it was tight with a crew collar, the kind that runs around the base of the neck.  The blood from the wound on Jensen’s head had crept under his dress shirt, and stained one side of the neck of the white undershirt red.  He must have noticed it looking down, because his fingers stopped moving.  It was the only wound they’d given him that bled. 

“No one else will get hurt?” he asked, even as he pulled the next button loose. 

The robber, Jared, Jensen had called him, and what a nice, solid name for a criminal, nodded, like robbers are so trustworthy, like they wouldn’t say anything to get an honorable, good looking man like Jensen out of his clothes.

Then, there was a scream from the direction of the vault, where Eddie and the two other robbers had gone.  Jensen stopped what he was doing, and short and stocky exchanged a look with Jared over my head.  He pointed his gun menacingly at the other hostages, mumbled a couple of threats to them, or what I’m guessing were threats, and ran off in the direction of the screaming.  He was just barely out of sight when Jensen moved.

He was quick and violent, springing forward and slamming into Jared, hard.  They wrestled around like that for a while, Jensen reaching for the gun, and Jared trying to subdue him. I had to scoot my chair back a few inches, else end up with one or both of them in my lap.  Of course that didn’t last.  Jensen may have been angry and motivated, but Jared was taller and stronger.  The poor boy didn’t stand a chance.

The scuffle ended with Jensen laid out on Eddie’s desk, both arms pinned above his head, wrists caught up in one of Jared’s gigantic hands.  They were both panting.

They stayed like that for a minute, Jared’s weight pushing down on Jensen’s body, faces so close together, they were probably breathing each other’s air.  Jensen tried to buck him off, a hard slam of his hips, but then his eyes widened and he stilled. 

Forty years married to Roger, I know what a man looks like when he’s sexually aroused.  The responding roll of Jared’s hips was a small movement, barely a movement at all, but it was more than enough for me to see where this was headed.  I could only hope the hostages on the other side of the room were far away enough, that they hadn’t caught on.  Bad enough that it was happening to Jensen, and that I had to see it, and that Jensen had to know that I was seeing it.   

Another tiny thrust, and short and stocky came back into the room.  His reaction was surprising, to say the least.  He actually growled before starting forward, and reaching out for Jared. 

“What are you doing?” he asked, in the same voice he’d used to tell me to get to the ground, earlier. 

Jared shrugged him off.

“He attacked me,” he said, though it was more of a whine, really. 

Short and stocky scoffed, then leaned forward to get a better view. 

“Jen?” he said, sounding concerned, of all things, and Mary, Queen of Heaven, just how many of these robbers was Jensen on a first name basis with anyway? 

For his part, Jensen didn’t move or speak.  Short and stocky scowled at each of them in turn, unhappy with being kept out of the loop, I imagine.  He spun around and headed back to the other side of the room, without so much as a glance in my direction.    

Once short and stocky was safe and sound with the other hostages, Jared slid his fingers around Jensen’s neck, and pulled at his tie.  He unknotted it and slipped it off, then manhandled Jensen onto his stomach, pulling both hands behind him.  He tied them tight at the wrists, and then yanked Jensen to his feet.  He positioned him with his back to Jared’s chest, holding his gun to Jensen’s temple with one hand, and using the other to hold him upright.     

“I’m sorry,” he said. 

Jared leaned forward and buried his masked face in Jensen’s neck.  For a moment, I could imagine them standing like that as lovers, which, by then, I was sure they had been, at one time or another. 

They reminded me of a time when I was a girl, no more than thirteen, and I walked in on my brother, Michael, and the neighbor boy, Danny Rowe.  They were leaning against Michael’s closet door, their long limbs wrapped up close and tight, like they were glued together, when I barged in.  Neither boy moved an inch, and I walked back out the way I came as quick as my feet could take me. A month later, Danny left for boot camp, he was Army, if I remember, and for six months afterwards, Michael was a wreck.  I never spoke about what I saw, except that week in confession, when I prayed for forgiveness for disrespecting my brother’s privacy.

Still, no matter how intimate the pose, Jared was still a robber here, and Jensen was anything but willing.  Then Jared pressed a palm to the front of Jensen’s trousers, hard enough to make him gasp.  He tugged on his arms to knock him off balance, and forced him to spread his legs further apart, to steady himself.  He kept pressing and pushing, moving his hips and hand to the same rhythm. 

Jensen didn’t make a sound.  Jared moved behind and around him, but Jensen was as still and distant as he’d been most of the morning, a human statue staring into middle distance.  But his eyes, the look on his face; he wasn’t frightened or ashamed, just completely heartbroken.  It was a terrible thing to see.

By the time it was over, the two robbers were coming up from the back, with Eddie between them.  His face, and the front of his trousers, were wet- like he had lost his bladder out of fear, I imagine, not the other- but he looked unharmed, otherwise.  Short and stocky broke away from the other hostages to follow after.  Only Jared was left, still holding Jensen’s body against his.  

He let go, of course he did, and the four of them rushed out the bank doors, far quieter than they came. 

I stood up on my bad knees and stepped forward, reached out for Jensen’s elbow.  He jumped at the touch, turned to look at me with wide eyes.  His face was starting to bruise, but his head had stopped bleeding.  I pulled him to me, kept pulling until he was close enough to lean down, and tuck his chin into the side of my neck.  
  
We stood there until the police came.

  



End file.
